


Talented

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: The Monkees, The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Drugs mention, F/M, mostly just cute fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 14:09:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13148295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For the prompt: 'Can I request a Peter Tork imagine where Peter feels insecure when people insult him and the reader reassures him that they love him just the way he is?'Sure can. Here is cute talent baby.





	Talented

You stand on tiptoe, and grumble under your breath – this bar is packed, and you are not that tall, especially in flat shoes. Hoping to catch the bartender’s eye is unlikely, unless you take your top off and scream – you seriously debate that in your head, and then decide against it, waving your notes again.

“Hey…!”

Somehow, you elbow through to the front, and a few minutes later, you have successfully transacted for two drinks; you have a fruity cocktail, and damn right you do, and Peter is having a beer, because drinking isn’t really his thing, but they don’t sell weed at bars yet. Ah well. You have hope for the 70s. You make your way back over, and see as you do that Peter is talking to some guy you don’t recognise.

“…but you don’t actually play your own instruments.”

You roll your eyes. Oh,  _yippee_. This old chestnut. You can see in Peter’s eyes that he is pretty done with this topic as well.

“Actually, I’m a competent musician. Surprisingly, I don’t actually live with the others, either,” Peter said flatly.  _Just Mike_ , you add in your head, but that was last year, and besides, you just want this asshole to move. Peter locks eyes with you. “Hey, sweetheart, thank you…”

“Hey. You’re his bird, right?” the man asks, and you nod. “So… if he’s serenading you, does he bring out a tape recorder first?” He laughs hysterically at his shitty joke, and you smile tightly at him before turning away, turning Peter away physically as well.

=“Conversation’s over, babe,” you smile, and begin to lead him away, hearing the guy faintly protest about ‘taking a joke’ – cunt – behind you. Peter nods. “Don’t let him get to you.”

“I know, but… huh.” Peter swallows. “It gets to you, y’know.” You look at him, and those dark eyes are fixed on the ground, as unreadable as always.

“Babe, you know you’re a talented musician-”

“Yeah. And this show is making a fat load of fuckin’ nothing of that skill.” He runs his fingers through his hair, and you shush him gently, taking his hands for a moment before rearranging his fringe. “I’m sorry, sweetheart…”

“Don’t worry,” you say gently. “Honestly. You’re talented. This show is…” You pause. “Is saying it’s a stepping stone gonna make you guys burst into song?” He snorts, and you kiss his cheek gently. “I know you’re talented.”

“Hush.” His cheeks have gone pink.

“And handsome. And talented. And smart.” He rolls his eyes, and then kisses you, hard. “And did I mention  _talented_? You’re very talented.”

“You don’t think I’m a sham?” he asks, quietly, and you shake your head.

“No, Peter. I think you’re a very talented musician, and it’ll all come out in the end, you see if it doesn’t.” He nods, and you smile at him. “I promise.”

“Pinkie promise?” he says, and you nod, before taking a sip of your cocktail and holding out your pinkie. “You’re the best, honey.”

“I know. Now, let’s get drinking,” you grin.


End file.
